Famine (The Four Horsemen, #3)

by Laura Thalassa

I suck in a shocked breath when I truly take in the horseman. All of him is strange and lovely. When I found him yesterday, he wore blood and grime in place of clothing. But now he’s fully dressed, and over his black shirt and pants he wears bronze armor that definitely wasn’t there last night. The metal breastplate gleams in the morning light. How … ? Did he leave at some point to get his things? But then my focus returns to his powerful build. Even kneeling, he looks intimidatingly large, and I don’t have to see the skin beneath his armor to know he has a body made for battle. That’s nothing, though, compared to his face. He’s … there aren’t words for this sort of male beauty. His caramel colored hair curls around the nape of his neck, and those brilliant green eyes are made all the brighter against his tan skin. I don’t know where to look—at the sharp slice of his jawline or those high cheekbones—or those soft, sinner lips. He looks like some mythological figure taken straight out of a painting. He is a mythological figure.